Ripple the snowy path;
While the gray clouds scud like a roaring flood
From the north wind's howling wrath.
And for those who travel that great white waste
In the numbing cold and frost,
Death lies in wait, like the hand of fate.
Stop fighting once—and you're lost.
But though the trail may be hard and crooked,
With many a twist and bend,
There's gold at the foot of the rainbow